04:05
by The Devil's Feet
Summary: Sherlock has returned from the dead to find his lover cool and unforgiving. John will barely talk to him anymore, and Sherlock does not know why. It's been a week since he got back, his nightmares are becoming unbearable, and he's beginning to lose all hope of ever regaining John's love and trust. A Calabash & Drifta fic that is full of delicious Post Reichenbach angst.


_Author's Notes: _I believe we're almost finished with getting the old stories in, and very soon we'll be able to start submitting new ones! Thank you all for reading and reviewing! Oh, and for those of you who want Upon the Downs to return, well, that's Calabash's own story, and though glorious as it is, it's not going to be put up on this site, as this site is Calabash & Drifta joint stories only. Though I promise I'll nag her about getting it back online.

_Warnings: _Rough sex, curse words, angst... you know the drill.

_Disclaimers: _We don't own Sherlock, we don't own the actors, we don't own the writers, producers, directors, make-up artists, designers, and other staff members. We don't have any control over it, sadly enough. But we do have control over our own little stories, and as you can see, we take full advantage of that.

_Summary: _Sherlock has returned from the dead to find his lover cool and unforgiving. John will barely talk to him anymore, and Sherlock does not know why. It's been a week since he got back and he's beginning to lose all hope of ever regaining John's love and trust. Full of delicious Post Reichenbach angst.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the far sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest. The telly was buzzing in front of him, but he was not paying attention. He could feel John sitting as far away from him as the seating space would allow. Sherlock kept watching him out of the corner of his eye, but John showed no signs of noticing. Sherlock could not help but feel miserable. It had been a week since... since he'd revealed himself to John, since he'd told him he was alive. John had reacted well considering, but Sherlock knew there was something wrong, he knew John had not forgiven him. They'd barely spoken about that time and John had been avoiding Sherlock. Sherlock understood - he knew it would take time, but when John made excuses about needing to buy milk or being out of jam it twisted Sherlock's insides and made him feel sick. The only thing worse than that was when John acted as though there was nothing different even though they both knew there was, but when John gave him that forced smile - that killed Sherlock Holmes more than anything.

John was well aware of Sherlock's scrutiny. He sat, feet squarely on the floor, watching the television program with intensity. He watched, but did not see. Still, he kept his eyes trained on the screen, knowing full well that his flat mate was analyzing his every move, down to the flicker of his eyes, so John Watson concentrated on being as attentive as possible to the telly. The fact that he had no earthly clue what was happening did not matter; all that mattered was that Sherlock knew that he was paying attention to the program, and not to him. Petty. Yes. John knew that it was. But he could not help it. Sherlock was back, he was home, he was alive and well and warm and breathing... but there was a part of John, no small part, that refused to believe it. And it was that small part that did not allow him to touch him again, hold him again, love him again. Sherlock was back... but for how long? John sighed heavily, crossing his arms and glancing at his watch. He could not keep up this facade tonight. He needed some rest. He had to go to the office tomorrow. He could see Sherlock peering at him curiously as he shifted on the sofa.

Sherlock noticed John getting restless, he knew the routine by now, the telly would be shut off and John would say he needed to work early in the morning, even though they both knew that was rubbish, then he would walk purposefully to his room and close the door quietly behind him. Sherlock frowned a little, he did not understand what had happened, he did not know why John was so distant.

Of course he knew that John would be hurt, he understood that much, but he did not know why it had to be like THIS. 'John,' he began, turning to look at John. _Please, please, please John, look at me... love me again, want me, need me like I need you. _

"Hm?" John worked to keep his voice steady. He stood, stretching, ignoring the tremor in Sherlock's throat, because if he did not, then he would have to turn and look him in the face, and once he did that, he was gone. He could not see Sherlock, could not see his burning eyes and mournful, downturned mouth. John was angry still, and wished to stay that way, perhaps a bit longer. He'd know when he was ready to be done. "I'm going to bed." He tossed the remote control over to his companion casually, not meeting his fervent gaze. "See you in the morning, if you're up. I have to leave early." Rubbish. He had to do no such thing. He turned on his heel, and strode to the stairs, take a deep breath. He paused at the base, and pressed his lips together. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he tossed over his shoulder.

And then John began to ascend the staircase to his bedroom.

Sherlock sat still for a very long time after John left, listening to the noise of the telly without actually listening. There were no tears in his eyes, no, Sherlock would not cry. John had not forgiven him, he might never forgive him. Sherlock leaned his head back and let out a soft moan that almost sounded like a sob. John. He did not understand. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, wishing he could run up to John's room and ravish him, but he knew that if he did that there would be no chance of John ever being his again. Sherlock knew very well that if he tried forcing John he would lose his blogger forever. Slowly he straightened one leg then the other, lifting himself off the sofa; he was going to face his demons in bed, alone. _John_. The door closed behind him and he leaned up against it for a moment before removing his clothes and replacing them with his silk pyjamas. Another night alone, another night... _John._

The doctor lay in his bed, naked but for his boxer shorts and socks, on top of his sheets and blankets. His hands were folded over his stomach, and he was staring at the ceiling. John listened as the telly snapped off downstairs, and he heard Sherlock rustle about, his bedroom door open and shut, his bed creak. John swallowed dryly. His breath caught, a shuddering, painful choke, and he turned on his mattress, cradling his head on his hands. Sherlock... It felt wrong, being up here when his younger lover was downstairs in a cold, unfriendly bed, with no company but his own racing mind. Of course... they should both be used to it, he thought bitterly. They hadn't slept a night with one another for so very long now. But there was a difference between them, and it made all the difference indeed. Sherlock CHOSE the separation. John did not. He bit his lip, trying not to let the fury drive to the surface again, but it was not easy. No matter Sherlock's reasons, he'd put John through hell. And John felt sometimes as if he still lived there. He squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed for sleep to come.

'I owe you.'

The wind whipped around, whispering nasty urges to Sherlock. 'Look only at me, John! Please, can you do that for me?'

Colours sped past him, he was so dizzy. Below he could see John. Oh God, not again.

'I owe you a fall.' Moriarty's voice filled his ears, driving him insane. Images of John screaming, John at his grave stone, John crying himself to sleep.

'SHERLOCK!'

Sherlock's eyes snapped open; he was drenched in cold sweat. His breath was shallow, his heart thumping against his chest. He had been having nightmares ever since he moved back to 221B; he could not rid himself of them. Perhaps it was the guilt, perhaps it was the fury and hurt in John's eyes, Sherlock did not know. He lay there for a very long time, trying to regulate his breathing. Oh God.

Sherlock felt tears rising, his throat closed. He hated this, he hated this so much. Turning over he pulled a pillow over his head and sobbed into it, trying to be as quiet as he could. He did not want to wake John. Sherlock's whole body shook with the force of those silent tears, he ached for John. He was terrified of being alone, of losing John. They felt so far apart now and Sherlock did not know how to fix it, he did not know how to build a bridge. After a few moments Sherlock sat up and wiped away the tears, swallowing hard. These nights he never got much sleep. Pulling on his dressing gown, Sherlock silently opened the door to his room and crept upstairs to where John was sleeping. This was something Sherlock often did when the nightmares became too much for him, when he did not know what else to do. He would sit outside John's room with his ear pressed up against the door, just listening to John breathe. Sherlock bit his lip and settled down for the evening, he would have to be gone before John woke up, but he was used to that. What felt like hours passed by and Sherlock nodded off, his dreams were filled with shouting and crying.

'Even your live in one doubts you, Sherlock, he thinks you're a fraud.' Moriarty smiled pleasantly at him, sipping tea.

'No! You're wrong!' Sherlock shouted - he had to be wrong.

'Oh? Am I?'

John walked through the door, his eyes full of hate. 'You're a liar, Sherlock Holmes. I hate you.'

_Oh God no, not you, John_. Sherlock twitched and gasped. John, John, John, John.

Without thinking he stood up and turned the handle to John's bedroom. He needed to be with John. He crossed the room in a matter of seconds and with his heart pounding in his ears and his face still wet he curled up next to John, not daring to put his arms around him, hoping against hope that John would not wake up, yet praying he would.

John was having the strangest dream. It was strange in that it was not the same nightmare that had plagued him for months on end. Sherlock's return did nothing to deter it; it simply altered, and now, when Sherlock fell, instead of staring up at him with glassy, lifeless eyes, he lay on the ground, mangled, broken, bleeding, and laughing, pointing at John, surrounded by Lestrade, and Molly, and Sarah, and Anderson, and Donovan, and Mrs. Hudson, and dozens of others, all pointing at John and laughing, as if someone has just told the world's greatest joke, and everyone got it but him. But not tonight. Tonight, he was having a very pleasant dream indeed. Sherlock was there, but oh, it was lovely. It was the old Sherlock, the young, new, bright Sherlock, the one who smiled and was not dead, the one that loved John, the one that John had fallen in love with almost immediately. John was dreaming of that first night, the night they'd made love, and how breathless and sweet Sherlock was, how drop dead gorgeous he'd been, lying in John's bed, gasping and arching and begging... how perfect their coupling had been, and how vulnerable he'd been after. John was dreaming of how they'd stirred the next morning, still wrapped up in one another, and the sweet kisses that ensued…and the shower... and the love making again... And as he dreamed, John was beginning to cry. He woke with a start, tears still stinging his bloodshot eyes, and for a long moment, John lay perfectly still in his bed, shivering. He was cold. He needed to get under the blankets, but he knew very well that it was not the heat of a pile of quilts that he needed... He needed Sherlock. He needed those long limbs and that long neck and the long face and his long cock and John needed it all. He curled in on himself, choking back a sob. All of the logic in the world could not give him back that innocence they'd shared, far too briefly. It was gone. And he had no idea how to get it back. John rubbed his face with his hands bitterly, and began to shuffle up the mattress to crawl beneath the sheets. He froze immediately. John turned, very slowly, to stare wide eyed at the skin and bones figure huddled at his back, snoring quietly. Sherlock.

For long moments, John gazed at the sleeping man. He was pale in the moonlight, and had lost weight. John snorted. As if he had any to lose. But he was thinner just the same, as thin as he'd been when John first met him, before he began to eat solely for John's sake, before John forced him to stop existing on cigarettes and coffee, before Sherlock began to live... really LIVE…for John and John alone. He reached out a hand to brush his rough fingers through the matted curls. In this light, Sherlock looked... so beautiful. So beautiful.

Sherlock was standing alone, looking out across a dark valley, it was cold, so cold and he was so very alone. A tear slid from his eyes. From somewhere a warm breeze lifted his coat, like a loving hand, caressing him softly. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he saw John staring at him, his hand suspended in motion. Sherlock sat up as though he'd been stung. 'I am sorry, I am so sorry. Christ, I didn't - I mean, I'll leave right now. I just...' He swiped at his eyes, hoping John could not see the wet lines running down his cheeks. 'I don't know what got into me.'

"Can you please just shut up now?" John whispered fiercely, his sharp eyes taking in the wet streaks marring that hollow face. His hand continued its motion, raking through Sherlock's thick, dark hair, and he frowned, watching as his companion's eyes clouded over. He was angry with Sherlock. Of course he was. But he loved him, he would always love him. To not love Sherlock was like trying to catch a falling star with a butterfly net. Impossible. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" he asked kindly, the tightness of his mouth the only thing belying his discomfort.

'I...' Sherlock blinked then flushed, he wasn't sure if he wanted to admit to John that he'd had a nightmare and was so overcome by the urge just to breathe the same air as him, to know that he was there. Childish. Immature. 'It was nothing,' he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably, 'I had a dream, just... just a dream. I didn't mean to wake you, I was just going to sit outside your door, I don-' Sherlock froze, his eyes widened, the flush growing. FUCK. That was one thing he had never planned on admitting to John. He was never going to tell the proud solider that he, Sherlock Holmes, had sat outside John's door every night for the past week just so he could be close to him.

John propped himself up on his elbow as he watched the horror grow on his lover's face. "Come again?" he quipped, and though he knew he shouldn't, John felt angry. Furious. He began to tremble, pulling his hand back from that soft mess on Sherlock's head, and he sat up fully to stare directly into those cool, wet eyes. "You were going to... what? Sit outside my door?" When the detective didn't answer, John narrowed his eyes and shifted closer…dangerously close. "Sherlock. Say that again. Tell me what you just said; tell me you weren't going to sit outside my sodding door all night."

Sherlock swallowed nervously, he did not know what was going on. For once he could not tell if John was angry or... something else. His eyes darted around, looking for a quick exit strategy as he felt John move closer. He did not want to kiss him, not if John didn't want him, but Sherlock knew that if John got any closer he could not hold himself back. So he started babbling, letting his mouth run on while his mind thought of escape routes. 'Nothing, John, don't worry about it. I don't sit out there all night, just until about 5:30, right before you get up. I didn't mean to wake you up, stupid really. I know, I promise I won't do it again. I didn't mean to this time, I know you need time, you need to wait, so I'll wait until you're ready.' If ever. Sherlock's stomach was in a mess; his mind was beginning to get fuzzy. _Please don't get any closer, John. I don't want to do anything stupid_...

There was a long moment of silence after Sherlock's words trailed off into the quiet blackness of the night. John was gazing down, down at his hands in his lap, down at Sherlock's fingers twitching on the bed. He shook his head, ever so slightly. "5:30." It was so quiet that he barely heard the words himself. But he knew Sherlock heard them, for the tall man stiffened on the mattress, and John's hand shot out to grab at his shoulder before he had the chance to stand and flee the room. He still did not meet his eyes. "Sherlock. Why the FUCK have you been outside my room at night?" he asked, his tone gentle, his undertone steely.

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock," he added, and the grip on Sherlock's shoulder tightened. "I will know if you're lying. We've been a million miles apart. For once, bloody talk to me."

Sherlock wanted to scream in rage and self-hatred. Really, how stupid could he get? He didn't know what was wrong with him. John's hand held him in place, John's warm, beautiful hand. Sherlock could not meet his eyes; he could not bear to see John's opinion of him go even lower. 'Because I miss you,' he whispered. 'Because I lie away every night for fear that if I fall asleep this will all be over, that my nightmares will come true. That you will hate me. Because I need to know that you are still there, still in your room. You don't have to impress on me the stupidity and irrationality of my actions, John, I know all too well.' Sherlock said fiercely, turning his head away. He did not want John to see him right now. Why hadn't he just stayed put?! 'Because I want to be with you for just a few hours before everything turns foul again.'

There, he said it. Now all Sherlock could do was wait for John's contemptuous laugh, for the sneer that would cross his lover's face. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped in defeat. This was the end.

John laughed. He did, and he couldn't help it, despite the agony that tore at Sherlock's face. He chuckled into his own chest, shaking his head and mumbling. "You know, for the most clever man in the world, Sherlock, you're a right wanker sometimes, a prize idiot." John dropped his hand from that thin shoulder, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "You misunderstand me, Sherlock, as usual."

John shook his head, and lifted his eyes at last to study the beautiful face, so lined, so hurt, so fearful. "I meant... Why the fuck have you been outside my room at night? Why haven't you come inside?" He gestured to the bed, blinking. "It's always been here, Sherlock. The door's never been locked. Not to you." John crawled a few inches closer.

Sherlock could not move. He was sure he had turned to stone. John had laughed, just as Sherlock had predicted, but this was... humour. That stung. 'I thought, well, I thought you did not want me to come. I was waiting for you.' Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and his lips twitched. 'I was waiting for you to tell me you were okay.' Sherlock turned to look at John and saw a soft smile on his face that had gotten a lot closer to Sherlock's during the last few seconds. The sleuth drummed his fingers nervously against each other. Was it... could it possibly... Sherlock had never been very good at this sort of thing, John had told him on many occasions that Sherlock was completely blind when it came to love, but this seemed awfully like John wanted Sherlock to kiss him. 'I don't understand.' Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

"I know you don't." John shrugged, closing the space between them by a few more centimeters. He longed suddenly, fiercely, to wipe that frown off of those full lips and replace it with his tongue. Oh, he was still angry... and he would be for a good long while. But this... this... "Sod this," he muttered, and pressed forward, capturing Sherlock's mouth with a brief, desperate kiss. It was violent, and searing, and over in a flash. He sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily, meeting Sherlock's shocked gaze with trepidation. "I'm not okay, Sherlock. I'm not, and I haven't been for ages. But that doesn't mean I don't want you." John's eyes flickered down his body for a moment, his heart racing. "Doesn't mean I don't love you."

Sherlock caught his breath and brought his fingers to his lips. 'John.' He leaned forward and put his arms around the smaller man, holding him close before kissing the corner of his mouth. Sherlock didn't care anymore, he just wanted John, and he knew that if John truly did not want to continue then he would push Sherlock away and Sherlock would leave. 'John.' Sherlock kissed his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. 'I love you.' His hold tightened for a scant few seconds before he loosened it just enough to let John know he could refuse if he did not want this. 'You are the only thing that I care about, I couldn't ever... I would be lost without you.' He looked into John's eyes, searching for acceptance.

"I was lost without you," John grumbled, his head falling back to give Sherlock better access to his neck. He knew they had issues to work out. He knew there was mistrust and anger between them. But... John groaned aloud as he met those silvery eyes, and they sparked back at him, full of light and promise. When it came to it, there was no one in the world John loved more, trusted more, than this man in his bed. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes, just for a few seconds. "Sherlock," he whispered. "I love you. You are not allowed to leave me again, is that understood?"

He opened his eyes, and waited for the response, intent.

Sherlock closed his arms around John once more, hugging him close as he put his lips to John's ear. 'I swear I will never leave you again, I'll drag you to hell with me if I have to.' he growled, 'I am never leaving you, ever, not for a second.' He kissed John passionately, his hands sliding down the doctor's naked back until they reached the waistline of his boxers then moved back up.

'Never, never, never,' he continued, memorizing every centimetre of skin on his John's back.

John turned his head to catch his breath, and also... also because he wanted exactly what he knew would come next if he did so. He bit his lip hard, a tremor wracking his body as Sherlock's mouth landed directly below his ear, and began to suck there, tongue darting out once in a while to taste. John felt his skin heat. He panted, taking in huge gulps of cold night air as his legs responded on their own, shuffling across the last few inches between them, and he climbed into Sherlock's lap, arms sliding around his shoulders, hips thrusting up into his flat stomach as those lips kneaded the spot that drove John absolutely wild. "Yes... fuck yes," he whispered softly, letting go, letting go of his anxiety and regret, letting go of his grief and resentment... letting go of the innocence of their love. It was not innocent anymore. It was fought for, paid for, agonized over... and it was perfect. He loved Sherlock. And he needed him tonight. John arched, his back curving beautifully against the moonlit silhouette of the window, and he strangled out a wordless plea. That mouth sent shivers racing up and down his spine, and he began to slowly rock his body on Sherlock's, tantalizing, circular movements in time with Sherlock's bites and licks.

Sherlock moaned, unable to form words. The friction was too much; he hadn't had sex in so long, so very long. He slid John's boxers off him, cupping his buttocks, his hands roamed down the sides of John's legs, wanting to touch all of this gorgeous man, to remember everything. He had lived off of memories for such a long time. He pushed John down onto the bed before ripping his dressing gown off and pulling at the buttons on his shirt, not caring how many of them fell off. He could feel John writhing beneath him, feel the heat radiating off John's tanned body. Sherlock stopped messing with the buttons, leaning down and tasting John's stomach, trailing kisses along his chest. This man was Sherlock's universe, his constant. His tongue darted out and licked John's belly button while his hands stroked at John's shoulders and chest, toying with his nipples. 'John.'

"Mmm, oh, yes, Sherlock," John hummed throatily, and he lay naked in the bed, his cock already stiff, the cheap sheets rough against his naked skin. They were coarse, and rubbed his buttocks and thighs as Sherlock straddled him, a wildly feral look in his eyes, and Sherlock's white teeth began to roll John's nipples about. He gasped aloud, bucking below him. "Fuck, oh yes, yes, Sherlock..." John was begging, and had no intention of stopping. He reached up, tickling his fingertips in the hair on the nape of Sherlock's neck, and he smirked at the hiss of breath that escaped Sherlock's mouth. "Come on, harder," he murmured, his chest rising to meet that hot mouth, his hips wriggling frantically, looking for friction.

'Ooooh, fuuuck.' Sherlock stopped trying to hold back, he gave up any notion he had of being nice. John had asked for it and Sherlock could not stop. He twisted one hand in John's hair, his fingers pulling, his other hand moved to John's cock and began to stroke it, pull it, caress it. He heard John let out a whimper and smiled. He had missed this so much. Sherlock bit John's abdomen, leaving a red mark before sliding down and licking John's length. He kissed John's cock lovingly before swallowing it down, humming ever so lightly, making John twist and turn with pleasure. Sherlock loved this.

"Shit shit shit shit shit..." Sherlock was sucking him, Sherlock, Sherlock... John's entire body nearly came floating off of the bed, and he cried out as that wet, sweet, wicked heat surrounded his length, It was hard, and twitching, but as he felt that familiar, lovely tongue flat against the underside, pressing the veins, circling the head, it was all that John Watson could do not to unload in Sherlock's mouth right then and there. He writhed instead, hips raising off the mattress, and John felt a flush rise in his cheeks, hot and crimson. He reached down, tangling both hands in Sherlock's curls, and with a snarl, he pushed his head down, farther, forcing him to take in the entire cock. "Fuck yes, Sherlock, suck my dick," John moaned, grinning to himself. Sherlock always loved it when he talked dirty. "Suck it, Sherlock, you want to, you want to suck my dick. You love sucking dick."

Sherlock felt his own erection now, raging hard against the silken cloth of his pyjama trousers. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He almost came in his pants when John started speaking. Tears pricked at his eyes as John fucked his mouth, oh God, he loved this. His hands grasped John's hips, making him move faster, harder. All sorts of noises were ripping out of his throat, he could not hold back. One hand slid to his crotch and he roughly stroked himself through the fabric of his trousers, not even bothering to take them off, not knowing if he could function enough to carry out that simple task. Above him he could hear John moaning lustfully. Sherlock felt John begin to climax. He was so close.

"Bugger.." John stammered, and struggled, his hands which had moments ago been grappling, pulling Sherlock' head down, down, now shoving at it. "Stop, stop, fuck... Sherlock... I'm going to cum, stop." It had been too long, and John was overly eager. His body was demanding, and he tossed his head, moaning wantonly, his legs spreading. "Sherlock, please..." He didn't want to cum. Not yet. Not when that gorgeous cock was tenting Sherlock's pyjamas, and he could feel it, thrusting against his leg, and he knew, he KNEW Sherlock wanted inside of him. And he needed that, oh, so very badly. John needed Sherlock to take him and lay claim to his body once more. It was always belonged to him... now, John wanted the proof, wanted to feel Sherlock's cum dripping out of him, wanted that moment of perfect clarity as he felt his lover climax inside of him, pumping him full of semen, splattering the warm walls of John's body. Oh yes. He needed Sherlock's fingers preparing him... one... then two... then more... "PLEASE," he groaned loudly, for Sherlock's mouth was still trying to coax him over the cliff. "Please, Sherlock..." His legs came up, his thighs wide. This was no time for subtlety.

Sherlock surfaced, gasping for air. He looked at John who was spread out before him, his body begging to be taken by Sherlock. He could think of no words to say, he could only shove at his trousers, freeing his cock. And then he lifted John's arse up, making his knees rest on Sherlock's shoulders as he lowered his head once more, bypassing John's raging erection and flicking his tongue out, licking John's hole, slowly pushing his tongue past the tight ring of muscles until he felt the velvety insides of John. This was something he had never done before but always wanted to try. He slid his tongue in and out of John, feeling John tighten around him, feeling him tense up. Sherlock stopped tongue-fucking John and instead licked his own fingers, making sure they were slippery, he did not want to hurt John. Then, he shoved one finger in and crooked it about before adding a second one. Sherlock knew he was hurrying the process, but he needed to feel John's tight arse around his dick, he needed to hear John scream wildly. He needed to fuck John mad.

The moment Sherlock's tongue brushed his tight pucker, John lost his mind. He'd imagined this, dreamt of it, fantasized about it, but... Sherlock seemed far too pristine and hygienic a person to lick and tongue fuck a man's arse hole, even if he was his lover. But now... John opened his mouth noiselessly, all remaining thought fleeing as he felt the drive, the desperate need for a hard fucking blow through every nerve in his body, every thought, every desire. John nearly sobbed with relief at the addition of a long, slender finger within, and he bucked against it, grinding on it, babbling Sherlock's name, the only thing he could mutter coherently. The second finger slid in then, and he threw his head back so hard, it slammed on the headboard, and he took no notice. "Yes, Sherlock, more, please, another, please... give me another..." He needed another. Sherlock was shivering above him, that wonderful cock of his dripping and shining in the low light, and John stared at it briefly before letting his eyes drag shut as Sherlock pulled his fingers out, only to shove them back in, all three. John screamed, his eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling as Sherlock towered over him, fucking him with three amazingly long digits, hard, in and out, over and over, and John gaped. They shoved in deep, and curved wickedly on their way out, and Sherlock was teasing his cock, and John was amazed to hear his own voice rumble out. "More, Sherlock. Fuck... fuck, give me another. Please. Please."

Sherlock obliged John and added a fourth finger, slamming into John as hard as he could. But this was not enough for Sherlock, he needed more, he needed to be inside John, so, with an audible groan he removed his fingers and guided his cock to John's hole, pausing for a moment, letting John wiggle his arse impatiently before slamming into him. Sherlock could not control his voice; it had a life of its own as he cried out John's name over and over, 'John! Oh fuck, you're so hot. Fuck, oh! Ahh! John!' He continued to push into John, filling him up completely before sliding out and ramming back in, each time with more force. John was so tight, so perfect. Sherlock arched into John, watching his lover's face contort with pleasure, watching his lips open and close and open again, emitting cries of need and completion. The air was hot around them; Sherlock's lungs were on fire as he ploughed into John, feeling the orgasm coming closer and closer with every thrust into that tight hole.

"Oh, oh, oh oh Sherlockkk," John's brow furrowed and his stomach flexed and tightened as he felt the piercing agony and glory of being fucked in the arse by Sherlock Holmes. He reached up above his head, shoving his palms against the headboard and pushing back against every violent thrust, and the pain ripped through him. Oh yes, it hurt. It hurt like hell. Sherlock's cock was very long, just like the rest of him, but unlike the rest of him, it was thick, and it split John wide open every time he rammed forward. And Sherlock was not gentle tonight. He would be tomorrow... John knew this from experience. The next time Sherlock took him, he would be kind and soft and tender. Right now... John howled as his prostate was pummelled, and stars burst before his eyes. "FUCK!" he shouted hoarsely, toes curling; sweat dripping off of Sherlock's curls onto his chest. His eyes blazed up at him. He felt dirty, so dirty right now, getting fucked, forcibly taken, spread and ravaged, and John moaned, hummed, sang Sherlock's name again. No one in the world could bring him so fucking low... and make him feel so fucking high. "Shit, I'm going to cum, Sherlock," he grated out, heaving. "Touch my cock, you fucking bastard."

Sherlock could barely hear John through the haze that had surrounded him, it took every last drop of willpower he had to let go of John's hips, to concentrate on something other than his need to shag John's brains out. Growling, he grasped the base of John's cock and slid up, pumping it with vigour. He pushed into John with one final thrust, he felt himself cum into John. Vaguely a part of his brain was screaming at him for coming first, but he didn't care. He continued to jerk John's cock until he felt the older man release, his semen spurting out and landing everywhere. On Sherlock's hands and face, landing on John's knees and chest. Sherlock licked a drop near his lip and slowly pulled out of John. His blood froze as he saw a smear blood. Oh God, he had hurt John. He had not meant to, Sherlock started shaking uncontrollably. He had been too rough, he hadn't prepared John well enough, he had hurt John.

'John,' he whispered, his hands hovering above John's body, not daring to touch him. 'Oh, John, I'm sorry, I...' He shuddered and he moved away from John. Sherlock's heart filled with worry and agony once again. He had not meant to hurt John.

"Sherlock?" John sat up, wincing a bit as he did so. Oh shit, he was going to be sore in the morning... He frowned in confusion as his young lover scrambled away from him, beginning to shake, and John groaned. He really didn't need one of Sherlock's manic episodes right now. They'd just finished one of the best fucks of his life, and he was hoping to clean up and dissolve into his sheets, curled next to this awkward, foolish, passionate man. "Sherlock, what's...?" And that's when John saw it. Blood on the sheets. He lifted his eyebrows, and glanced up at Sherlock. The detective was huddled on the far corner of the bed, eyes full or sorrow and loss. "Sherlock." Damn. Damn, this was absurd. "Sherlock, it's... it's going to happen sometimes," John said firmly, swinging his legs out of bed. He walked over to Sherlock with a hiss of discomfort, but his knees felt like jelly, and he was... extremely sated. He stood directly in front of him, covered in cum and sweat. "Look at me."

Sherlock's arms tightened around his legs, but he looked at John anyway. He felt miserable. Couldn't he have held back just a little for once? 'I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to.' Sherlock's lips twisted into a humourless smile.

"No?" John placed his hands on his hips, well aware of how ridiculous he probably looked, nude, sticky, hair mussed, hands on his hips. He didn't care. It was Sherlock. "Yes you did, Sherlock, you meant to shag me till I fell apart, and you did a damned fine job of it. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and you're a consulting detective. We've both seen our share of blood. You know as well as I that you haven't caused any permanent damage, so get the bloody hell out of bed, and come clean up with me. If we don't, we'll stink in the morning, and I want to wake up to the smell of your skin... not the smell of our fuck." John turned on his heel and stalked to the bedroom door, hesitating a brief moment with his hand on the knob. "You coming?"

Sherlock blinked and sat still as John stalked off. Then he leapt off the bed and followed him, hovering over John apologetically. He knew John was right, he knew he was being fucking stupid, but damn it all if he cared. Tomorrow he was going to make it up to John, tomorrow he was not going to let the man get out of bed, he was going to make sure John was fully taken care of, completely okay. Still, he thought to himself, this was so much better than the painful silence of the past week.

"Go on then." John gestured. He wanted Sherlock to go first. He didn't want his lover to see the slight limp in his step. Yes, Sherlock had shagged him good, hard and mad, and John cleared his throat as Sherlock complied, descending the stairs two at a time, making for the loo. John followed, slower. He smirked a bit as his body began to throb, ache, dull, then sharper. He'd have to take something to help him sleep. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and groaned. 4:05 AM. Damn. He was supposed to be in the office tomorrow…Fuck the office. Sherlock was dead, and now was alive again. John stood outside the shower, watching Sherlock's shadow move within. It was as if he had just come back…just tonight. And John loved him.


End file.
